


Loss

by teh_gelfling



Series: Prowl/Red [7]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Implied Mpreg, M/M, Miscarriage, Slash, Sticky Sex, Triggery Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teh_gelfling/pseuds/teh_gelfling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://tf-rare-pairing.livejournal.com">tf_rare_pairing</a> weekly request prompt: June 19, 2011 – Prowl/Red Alert – aftermath</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Follows [Disconsolate.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/978355) Again, another RarePair prompt that is waaaay late.
> 
> If you feel like it, leave a comment or critique. I love knowing what my readers like and don't like about my stories.

Red Alert groaned, rolling off to the side and settling on the berth.

Prowl followed, straddling the Lamborghini's hips, his valve dripping fresh transfluid and lubricants on the black plating. Dark blue optics flicked over his lover's frame, stopping when they met the other's. “Red...” he moaned, engine revving, and white fingers traced patterns in the mess he was making.

Red shuddered, but it was a very, _very_ pleasant one. The black and white knew exactly where to touch him.

“Red, please.” It came out as a sensual whine as Prowl sheathed his lover's spike in his slick valve.

Mm, he was beautiful when he begged, but he had to be firm on this. “No, Prowl,” he said gently. “I'll frag you all you want, but no sparks.”

Prowl ground down on Red's array with a whimper. “Want you. _Need_ you. Please.”

“And you can have me. Just not my spark.” And here was the touchy part. “Not until Ratchet clears you.”

The change in the mech was immediate and startling. His frame went stiff and still before he all but scrambled off the berth, fury in every line. “I am _not_ waiting around for another vorn while Ratchet takes his time to certify me fit to carry again,” he snapped, optics blazing. “My spark is perfectly stable and I _want_ the newspark. I _need_ it. You don't know... you don't... I...” Doorwings drooped from the rigid vee they'd been held in as Prowl's anger abruptly faded and he broke down.

The red and white sat up on the edge of the berth and his hand reached out and tugged the tactician to him, letting the mech curl into his frame. His mate's distress was all too understandable, and it triggered a somewhat milder form in him. They'd been looking forward so much to holding their newspark, doting on it, only to lose it long before it should have emerged. Before the protoform had even begun manufacture. He crooned softly as he stroked a doorwing, gentle motions to soothe its bearer.

Prowl cried into his mate's neck cabling, all thoughts of interfacing long gone. He only just felt the hand on his wing, barely-there sensations ghosting across his sensor net. He knew it was meant to be a comfort, and maybe eventually it would be, but only when he managed to calm down far more than he was. Right now it was more annoying than anything and he flicked the wing away from Red's touch.

He could feel the confusion and upset in the energy field against his; he'd never rejected the comfort so soundly before. He pulled his own field in tight to his frame and locked down armour. He hurt, but he didn't have to drag his lover along with him. Keeping himself closed off seemed the most logical way to avoid hurting the mech further.

Red began to pet white plating in spots that had always helped settle the Praxian. “Prowl, please. Don't do this. Don't shut down on me. I don't want to have to get Ratchet again. Or Smokescreen. You were allowed back on full duty just a decaorn ago.”

The black and white pulled himself out of the embrace, hopefully not too fast to make Red feel like he was being rejected. The mech was incredibly sensitive about that. “Their assistance will not be necessary. I'm fine. I apologise for my appalling behaviour.” He winced inwardly at the absolute formality of his statements.

For all of a klik, Red sat and stared, trying to make sense of what he was hearing and seeing. Then his vocaliser spat static while trying to get all the words out. “You! You are _not_ _fine._ And your behaviour is perfectly normal. We lost a sparkling! You're entitled to _grieve,_ Prowl! We both are. This is why Ratchet won't certify you fit. Certainly your spark is stable again, and more than strong enough, but you're _not_ grieving. You start, but then you shut down again! You're physically fit, but your _mental_ _state_ is what worries Ratchet. Worries _me.”_

Prowl frowned. Scowled, really. “How _dare_ you. Who are you to dictate how I grieve? Who is _Ratchet_ to tell me that I cannot bear a sparkling if that is what I want? And believe me, that _is_ what I want. One way or another, Red Alert.” He turned sharply and proceeded to shut himself into their private washrack. A moment later, the sound of solvent running became a constant _rssshh_ in the background as the Praxian cleaned up.

The security director sat dumbfounded. Those last words had had a certain finality to them, and more than a trace of threat. His processor began throwing up various scenarios, potentialities on how the situation could play out, and with them came a tightening of his spark and a rising panic.

He opened a comm channel to the CMO.


End file.
